Defying the Shadows
by MelodyAnne
Summary: APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn’t remember...Post S4
1. Subtitles

**Defying the Shadows**_ APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn't remember…_

Chapter 1: Subtitles

Disclaimer: I don't, nor did or will I ever, own any aspect of Alias. All recognizable characters and plot strands belong to JJ Abrams, not to me. But this plot in this particular fic is mine. But I have no characters to claim all for my own like in some of my other fics. Like Jeffrey…I love Jeffrey!

* * *

It was like the awful black-and-white subtitled American horror films she and a couple other girls had snuck in past Sophia when they were just girls. Undead zombies. That's all these people were. The bullets…they didn't stop them. There were so many of them… 

She looked around, looked at her hands. She was one of them now. Blood…so much blood. It was on her, now. Her gun…why couldn't she put it down? That man…he had only been trying to help. Why did she want so badly to see him die? To see his blood spill into the street? Horror overtook her as she looked down and saw it was her hands that now held the knife she'd watched slit his throat.

Her eyelids suddenly felt heavy, and the bloody images vanished, leaving a darkness and a deep sense of dread. Shed needed to cry, wanted even to break down, but somewhere between her mind and the physical reaction she couldn't do it.

Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to unbearably bright lights, and then they landed on a figure by her bed.

Eric.

The urge to cry out to him, to beg him to save her, to warn him, was so strong it almost choked her, but she couldn't. The unexplainable wish she felt to strangle him with the IV tube hanging near her bed, with such a murderous rage that she felt paralyzed by it, won out. But her arms felt heavy, too heavy to even left.

"Weiss," she heard herself squeak weakly, but the voice was faraway and not her own.

She saw his eyes go wide and distantly saw him stand and quickly move to the doorway.

"Hey!" he shouted into the hall. "She's awake!"

People rushed in, began turning knobs and pressing buttons.

Stupid bastard, she thought vaguely as she slipped back under, the sedatives being increased beyond even her strange new powers of alertness.

* * *

The images replayed themselves again and again, never ceasing. Shadows one time, all in sharp relief the next, perhaps in vivid color yet another. She saw the black jeep the same way every time. It came out of nowhere, smashing into their car. A hand, the visor pulled down low. Then it was all shadows and outlines, low voices, humming, buzzing, beeping. 

Darkness.

* * *

His secrets haunted him. At times, he heard noise, but other than that and the dreams there was a silence so utterly complete it was scary. 

At one point, he relived, through an absolutely real dream, his father's funeral. He'd almost forgotten how devastating it was, to be a small boy at a government funeral. Seeing his father being lowered into the ground, and not even knowing what he'd done. How he'd died. Where he'd died. Thinking of a million dark and scary ways Daddy could have died, all of them being all his fault. All because he couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut.

Was it an accident? Had he been shot? Mommy was always afraid Daddy would get shot. Did someone do it on purpose? Had his Daddy known he was going to die? Did he worry about what would happen to his wife and son?

Or had he left them in death as easily as he'd often left them alone in life?

He remembered clearly seeing his mother, his strong, cheerful mother, sobbing hysterically when she saw the American Flag, the very flag that had taken his Daddy away, she'd told him, flying high over the cemetery. Seeing, past her, the men lining the edge of the cemetery, trying to blend in. One behind a tree. One standing over a gravesite. A few sitting in a discreet car.

He wondered if they were good guys or bad guys, like the ones that killed his Daddy.

Tucking his hands into his suit pants pockets, he walked with his mother toward their car. His Daddy's car, really, because his mom had rarely driven it until after they'd gotten the news. She was still crying softly even as they walked across too green grass toward the iron gate.

All of a sudden, they were both grabbed and thrown into the back of a sleek black sedan before either could resist.

Again he wondered distantly if these were good guys, like his Daddy, or bad ones.

* * *

Ah, lots of questions, very few answers, right? Yes, duckies, these are the dreams our rabid and wrecked characters are having. Go with it, and review please…and no, I have no earthly idea where 'duckies' came from. 


	2. Inevitable Reaction

**Defying the Shadows** _APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn't remember…_

Chapter 2: Inevitable Reaction

Disclaimer: I don't, nor did or will I ever, own any aspect of Alias. All recognizable characters and plot strands belong to JJ Abrams, not to me. But this plot in this particular fic is mine. But I have no characters to claim all for my own like in some of my other fics. Like Jeffrey…I love Jeffrey!

* * *

Weiss put a hand to his head, an unfamiliar gesture to him. He could feel a similarly unfamiliar pounding right below his left temple. 

He'd spent his lunch break with Nadia, and checked on Syd and Mike. Seeing Nadia come out of those sedatives had been the scariest thing he'd ever experienced. As she'd slept, she'd looked almost normal again. But then he'd seen the blood drain from her face, and the soft line of her jaw become hard and completely change the shape of her face. Then her eyes had opened, all at once, not fluttering like they did when she'd wake from a light sleep. It was as if the sedatives had suppressed the part of her that had been infected, but it reared its ugly head the moment she regained consciousness.

But she was fighting. His Nadia had broken through for just a moment when she'd uttered his name, and he'd seen her eyes change for just that instant, and she'd shifted her hand as if to reach out to him.

Eric Weiss was anything but a romantic, but these were the only ideas he had to hold to for the time.

"Man, you look bad," Marshal commented, sitting down at the computer next to the one Weiss was pretending to work at. "I don't mean, like, regular bad, I mean train wreck bad."

"Thanks, Marshal," Weiss said dryly, pulling his hand down his face. Then he paused, realizing it was a gesture he'd see Vaughn emulate many times over the years when Sydney was in the field and he was stuck back in LA.

"Oh." Marshal looked up. "You sat with Nadia, right? During lunch? Did something happen? Or not happen? I mean, did she…"

"She woke up," Weiss broke in. "Just for a minute."

"Sucks," Marshal said. "How are Syd and…"

"They figure Syd will overcome the effects of the mild sedatives they're giving her in a few days, and there's no change in Vaughn."

"I thought I'd stop by and see Syd later," Marshal said thoughtfully a moment later. "You know, so if she wakes up, she won't be alone, she'll see a familiar face and all. I mean, she might…I'm sure she'd like that at a time like this, right?"

Weiss gave him a quick look meant to be dismissive, but at the earnest look on Marshal's face he couldn't resist a quick smirk.

"I'm sure she'd appreciate it," he allowed, grinning.

* * *

Sydney barely heard the chattering, but it was somehow comforting. The inconsistency was so much more normal than the steady beep of machines. She relaxed fully for the first time in days. 

But, with the comfort, came the memories. Vaughn. The wreck.

Tears were already streaming down her face when her eyes fluttered open.

She jumped a little when he focused on the face leaning over her bed.

"Syd?" Marshal said, leaning closer as if he thought she couldn't see him. "You're okay, Syd, you're safe. Everything's okay now."

"Vaughn…" Sydney gasped, her throat dry.

"No, I'm not…" Marshal began, looking suddenly very worried.

"…Isn't his name…" she managed.

Marshal paused, confused for a moment before the two parts clicked. Before he could ask her what she meant, she fell back to sleep, relieved in part of the horrible secret that kept her restless.

* * *

"She's awake? How is she?" Weiss asked casually. 

"She was awake for a little while yesterday, I don't know if she woke up again. When she woke up, she was crying," Marshal stared. "At first, I thought she called me Vaughn, which, if Vaughn wakes up with her thinking _I'm_ Vaughn, well, that would be really bad. But then she said 'Isn't his name.' 'Vaughn isn't his name.' _That's_ what she said."

Weiss was staring blankly at Marshal now over the bank of computers they'd been working at.

"She doesn't think Vaughn is really Vaughn's name?" he finally managed to string together. "Are you _on_ something, man?"

"No! Just…just think…_consider_ it for a minute…just a second," Marshal said. "Sydney seemed completely lucid when she said it. And what would it take for her to really doubt Vaughn?"

Weiss, to his credit, did pause for a moment before sputtering, "It's crazy, Marshal. I've known Mike forever. We _trained_ together."

"He was already, what, like, twenty when you guys trained? Twenty-five? There could have been anything before that that he's kept a secret all this time."

"Like what, something when he was a little kid?" Weiss bit back sarcastically.

"Well, yeah," Marshal continued enthusiastically. "Why not? We've seen it before. Kids get caught up in, say, their parents' messes all the time. What if Agent Vaughn's mother and himself became targets after his father was killed?"

"You forget," Weiss argued as the idea planted itself and began to take root. "William Vaughn was a real, legitimate agent. We have documents, agents who remember his death, who remember seeing his wife and kid at his funeral. If Vaughn isn't Vaughn, then Bill Vaughn isn't his dad, and then Irina Derevko didn't kill his dad."

* * *

Sloane pressed forward, forcing the man to take a step back. 

"Her exposure only affected a small portion of her brain," Dr Simons was saying, looking down at the small man who was somehow so intimidating. "In theory, Nadia would be completely aware of everything she does but the damaged portion of her brain would block any natural physical manifestation of her reactions to any of it. The infected portion of her brain controls and limits her."

"What can you do?" Weiss asked automatically from somewhere behind this weasel like little man.

"What treatments are available?" Sloane demanded, completely shutting out Weiss.

"Well, research suggests that certain enzymes could be introduced into her brain that may destroy infected cells, but it's a risky procedure and completely experimental, and could potentially produce unknown or untreatable side effects."

"Or? There are other options."

"My recommendation would actually be removal of the infected portion of her brain." Dr Simons paused and waited for the inevitable reaction to the suggestion.

"Remove her brain?" Weiss demanded angrily, surging forward to stand next to Sloane.

"Only a small portion," the doctor corrected. "Spinal fluid would quickly fill the cavity left, and, pending complications, Nadia could potentially fully recover within a few months."

"Do it," Sloane said shortly.

"Are you crazy?" Weiss demanded, being forced to follow when Sloane strode purposefully away from the doctor. "That guy wants to _cut out_ your daughter's brain! She's barely recovered from the bullet _you_ put in her, and you want to just let that guy put a _scalpel_ in her _head_?"

"The chances of Nadia surviving the surgery are much higher than those of her surviving foreign enzymes being injected into her temples," Sloane said flatly, continuing to move at a brisk pace.

"But what are the odds she'll come out of this without permanent brain damage?"

Sloane, finally irritated, stopped abruptly and turned to face Weiss.

"Nadia already _has_ permanent brain damage, Agent Weiss. All we can do here is hope to keep the damage from ruining her life, and perhaps if we're lucky allow her regain some quality of life," he snapped, then turned and quickly slid into an elevator before Weiss could recover to follow him.

* * *

Nothing to say to that. Review, please! Reviews tend to help teh plot bunnies hop out of the hat faster... 


	3. A Good Mad

**Defying the Shadows** _APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn't remember…_

Chapter 3: A Good Mad

Disclaimer: I don't, nor did or will I ever, own any aspect of Alias. All recognizable characters and plot strands belong to JJ Abrams, not to me. But this plot in this particular fic is mine. And I have no characters to claim all for my own like in some of my other fics. Like Jeffrey…I love Jeffrey!

* * *

"I'm lowering the sedation dose," Sydney's nurse explained calmly. "When the doctor found out she woke up yesterday he decided she was ready to come around on her own," she added cheerfully. 

"I can expect her to wake up soon, then?" Jack asked.

"Not fully, not for another day or so when most of the heavy sedation wears off. But she may have periods of consciousness lasting a few minutes."

Jack thought with a wry twist of his lips that this girl had the most chronically cheerful smile he'd ever encountered. He shifted slightly in his chair, then opted to stand.

"Thank you," he said briskly when the young blonde would have bounced her pony tail and asked if she could get him anything.

Jack paced the better part of an hour away before he heard Sydney stir. Her eyes were wide as he stood over her bed.

"Dad," she squeaked, seeming almost relieved to see someone there. "Someone tried to…kill us."

Confused, Jack placed a restraining hand on her shoulder as she tried to sit up.

"The jeep was found abandoned. The police in Santa Barbara are looking for the driver, but it was a car accident. A hit and run, but, nonetheless, they happen, Sydney. What makes you think they were trying to kill you?"

Jack watched her pause to gather her wits against the still-strong sedatives, and her eyes drift closed as she fought to answer him. Her words became a slur, but Jack distinctly heard something about Vaughn.

* * *

Marshal saw Weiss throw a nasty look toward Sloane's office, then head toward his own, but Marshal caught his sleeve. 

"You've got to see this," Marshal hissed, glancing cautiously toward Sloane's office.

"Now's not really a good time," Weiss muttered, moving away. "I've got stuff to…"

"It's about Vaughn," Marshal cut in. "I found something."

Weiss rolled his eyes, but he leaned down eagerly a few minutes later as Marshal pulled up an old photo on his computer screen.

"What's this? A funeral?" Weiss asked, noting the black suits and dresses the people in the photo wore.

"A photo of Bill Vaughn's funeral, from his file. Look at this kid, here," Marshal said, touching the screen. "We assume this is Michael as a little kid, right? Well, on a whim I did a search using a face recognition program of the federal database of employee files, and guess what I found?"

Weiss frowned, but sniped, "The Easter bunny in the background?"

"No." Marshal frowned as he pulled up another photo.

"Is this the same funeral?" Weiss asked.

Marshal shook his head.

"That's the same kid, but at a funeral in late '78, four months before Bill Vaughn died. A fed by the name of Jacob Mosley. His son and wife disappeared immediately following the service and were presumed dead. I couldn't find a picture of the wife in either file, but it's the same kid."

Weiss took the mouse from Marshal and tiled the photos, staring at them side by side.

"Well, holy shit."

* * *

Her mind was wonderfully, gloriously, empty. For only too brief a moment, Sydney enjoyed the absolute silence of thought that only exposure to sedatives of the most powerful kind will bring. 

Then, slowly, the beeping monitors crept in, then the sound of several pairs of feet shuffling past the doorway, the sound of a TV next door.

Opening her eyes hesitantly at first, Sydney was confused for a moment, unsure of her surroundings. The white walls, the IV tubes, the monitors…she was in a hospital.

She wondered vaguely how long she had been asleep, mindlessly moving her fingers and toes to appraise what damage might have been done. She moved a little more, realizing she was sore and a little stiff, but otherwise in pretty good shape.

More curiosity than anxiety made her close her eyes as she scooted carefully to a sitting position in the bed, trying to force her mind to grab onto the last thing she remembered.

Nadia. Images of that horrible, bleak night assaulted her, shattering the strange calm and catapulting her heart rate into a state sure to set off alarm bells. She glanced around and found the red call switch on the wall behind her.

A nurse in perhaps her early fifties came into the room, comfortingly cheerful though her demeanor did little to calm Sydney.

"Oh, honey, you're awake, that's good," the woman cooed, glancing at monitors. "Why don't you lie back down and let me take a look at you? No, no, questions can wait," she ordered when Sydney opened her mouth. "You just relax before the doctor decides you need some more time under sedation before you're good and steady."

Sydney lay back obediently, but continued her attempts to communicate. Her mouth was dry and felt cottony, and the sedatives apparently hadn't fully relinquished their hold, because even to her own ears her words slurred so badly as to be unintelligible.

"Waapenda Nada?" she demanded.

"Really, dear, I can't understand a word you're saying," Mary Poppins: The Nurse declared. "If you'll just let me get your vitals, I'll get you some water and…"

"Ma ister! Seekay?"

"Just one more minute, Ms. Bristow."

"Nuh! Te'may ef seeth uhkay!"

Sydney frowned as her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her words became even harder to hear.

"Ms. Bristow, relax. I'll get you some water, then you can _slowly_ tell me…"

Sydney pressed her lips together, not in defeat, but because she knew her irritation was only making things worse. The nurse, though annoying at the moment, was right. He'd just have to wait until she'd had some water, and may be even a few moments to clear her head.

Nearly ten unbearable minutes later Sydney eagerly accepted a plastic cup of water and gulped down most of it before slowly sipping the remainder.

The infuriating woman stood by with a knowing half smile.

"I'm glad you've decided to be more cooperative, Ms. Bristow. That should make your time with us much more pleasant."

While Sydney longed to tell the woman how wrong she was in exactly how many ways, that would have to wait until more pressing matters were out of the way.

"Where. Is. My. Sister?" Sydney asked slowly, enunciating carefully around the residual cottony effects of the sedatives. "Nadia. Santos. How. Is. She?"

"Ms. Santos is stable," the woman said diplomatically. "That's all I know. I don't work with her."

"Cured? Recovering?"

"Neither, I understand. Just stable." When she saw Sydney was satisfied for the time, eh sugary smile returned. "Funny. All of those people that came to see you seemed sure you'd ask after your fiancé first."

Sydney drew her eyebrows together and watched the smile fade from the nurse's face. "Fiancé?" she asked, a real anxiety cutting at her chest. The panic produced a chain reaction of questions that should have occurred to her to begin with.

"What am I doing here? What happened?"

Her voice rose and the words were hard to understand, but she didn't care. She stared hard at the woman now shifting nervously from foot to foot.

Weiss chose that exact moment to come charging in, clutching a manila folder that he waved excitedly.

"Great, you're awake! You won't believe what Marshal found! You may have been right about…"

"A-_hem_," the now Nazi Nurse said loudly, giving Weiss a disapproving glare as she stepped into his path and pulled him back into the hall, leaving Syd to work up a good mad.

* * *

And now we set the stage for the entire plot of this fic. What'd ya think of my nurse character? I love her. Anyway…I have a question. I'll have to completely rewrite about 8 chapters if yall give me the wrong answer, but would yall rather Nadia died, or should I use her to create Sloane/Weiss drama? Cause I have good ideas for both, one's just already written and all…tell me what you think! If I don't get at least five votes, I'm using the written version, FYI... 


	4. Desperately Convinced

**Defying the Shadows** _APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn't remember…_

Chapter 4: Desperately Convinced

Disclaimer: I don't, nor did or will I ever, own any aspect of Alias. All recognizable characters and plot strands belong to JJ Abrams, not to me. But this plot in this particular fic is mine. And I have no characters to claim all for my own like in some of my other fics. Like Jeffrey…I love Jeffrey!

* * *

Sloane moved along the length of the room in long strides, barely noticing the room itself beyond where its boundaries lay. He didn't see the chairs lining the walls, covered in a generic, multicolored weave of some sort, the general effect of which was a maroon color that showed neither blood nor vomit with any promiscuity, nor the occasional piece of chewing gum left unnoticed until dried into the fabric. Nor did he notice the carpet his feet wore a path in, green with just a hint of gold, and tramped down so badly that the legs of the heavy chairs no longer left visible impressions in the rug. 

He'd been in this confining room for hours now, leaving APO two full hours before he normally would have on a slow day. He, at moments, craved the nearness of another human being, but he himself had asked Nadia's doctors to keep the surgery a secret from all visitors but himself, and the thought of being confined to the small room for so many hours with the two people most likely to join him should they have known was enough to start a slow pounding right behind his eyes.

For one thing, Sloane had no idea where he stood with Sydney since he'd shot her sister, his own daughter, to protect her. She'd been unusually subdued and subordinate since their return from Russia, but from what he understood she now remembered nothing of that week, so any progress he felt they might have made had been erased from her memory, along with other, more significant events.

Eric Weiss, on the other hand, he sincerely disliked. In Arvin Sloane's opinion, while his ability as an agent wasn't in question, Weiss was a screwball, unable to take anything seriously, and in possession of a disturbing aptitude for turning any given situation into a joke, however bad said joke may be. Sloane had no intention of _inviting_ such a man into his daughter's life, and he vowed silently to make doubly sure to convey his discontent in the matter to one Eric Weiss.

Sloane sensed more than heard the other man enter the room, but it broke his train of thought all the same.

"Mr. Sloane?" Dr. Simons said in a low voice, probably reassuring to most ears but Sloane found it mildly annoying instead.

"Yes?" he said, turning slowly as he said it.

"Nadia is in recovery," Simons said with a warm smile. "She's still sleeping, but you can see her now. We won't know what repercussions the procedure may have had until she comes out of the anesthesia and is alert. We may keep her sedated for up to three days to allow the spinal fluid to fill the space before she wakes up."

Sloane nodded, but didn't speak as he followed the doctor to Nadia.

* * *

Weiss trudged slowly up the hall, his gaze focused on a doorway near the corner, around which was the corridor that led to the main desk. He had talked to Sydney's nurse, then to her doctor. The man had been confused by his nurse's description of Sydney's sudden amnesia, but, after much badgering on Weiss' part, the doctor had agreed that it might be beneficial for Sydney to be briefed by a friend. 

Syd sat up eagerly, if a little anxiously, when Weiss appeared in the doorway. The look she fixed on him was so plaintive that it was all Weiss could do not to return a look of pity, a thing he knew Sydney would not appreciate from anyone. She wanted answers from her friend, not pity.

"Eric, please," she begged softly. "What's going on?"

Weiss pulled the chair in the corner to her bedside before he spoke.

"Syd…you really don't remember the accident?" he asked in confusion.

Sydney shook her head wearily.

"You woke up a few times since you've been here," Weiss added a few moments later. "You don't remember what you said to Marshal?"

Sydney shook her head again, an impatience beginning to steal across her features.

"The nurse," she said anxiously. "She said something about my fiancé…"

"Yeah," Weiss said. "Vaughn was in the accident too."

Sydney eyes grew round.

"Weiss, I don't remember being engaged to Michael."

Weiss began to look worried. Hadn't he heard something about it being best not to plant memories in amnesia patients?

"What's the last thing you remember?" he asked.

Sydney closed her eyes, remembering. The horror, seeing Nadia, Sloane with the gun, Nadia barely breathing…

"Being on the plane," she said finally. "With Nadia bleeding, and my dad saying…that the nearest unaffected hospital was almost and hour away." She looked at Weiss. "How long ago was that?"

"Almost two weeks," Weiss said, the hand holding the manila folder sliding out of her line of sight. There was no point in giving her even more of a shock, at least not until she'd had time to adjust to the idea that there was time she couldn't remember. Let alone that she _had_ remembered it until perhaps only hours ago.

* * *

Whoever had covered Jacob Mosley's case, Marshal decided, had done a very good job. He'd found the FBI's computerized case file, yes. He could hack into it, no problem. He'd probably even be able to decrypt the file fairly quickly, having the same government grade encryption software himself. 

But not before the FBI knew who he was, where he was, who he worked for, and where he lived. That was only with his level of clearance, though. The program protecting the Mosley file could follow his own connection back to access every piece of information APO had connected to his access code. With level six clearance, however, Marshal knew that the only information attached that outside sources could trace was an encrypted version of the letters A-P-O. it would be a miracle for someone to even decrypt that small a string, let alone would they know what it meant.

But, being Marshal Flinkman, he was sure he could find a way around the program. It would just take a lot more time than he'd have liked.

Just as Marshal was wishing he had access to a computer with level six clearance, Jack Bristow appeared in he doorway to Marshal's right with his customary, "Ahem."

"Oh! Uh, Mr. Bristow," Marshal stuttered. "Can I…I mean, did you want…is there something I can help you with?" All the time, Marshal was pressing keys and closing windows on the computer screen.

"You were sitting with Sydney one of the times she woke up," Jack said. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. I mean, she was only awake for, like, two minutes, so she didn't say much, but, I was there, 'cause I thought she might not want to be alone…you know, I though she might want company if she woke up, and hey, she did…

"I was wondering if Sydney said anything that one might find odd," Jack broke in flatly. "I know she has no recollection of the events now, but when she spoke to me she was desperately convinced that the driver of the jeep tried to kill her and Vaughn."

Marshal almost told Sydney's father what she'd said, and everything he and Weiss had discovered, but concern for Sydney stopped him. It was common knowledge that Jack Bristow hated Michael Vaughn. How fair would it be to Sydney, and to Vaughn, to give her father another, very concrete reason to hate and distrust Vaughn?

"Well, she didn't really…she didn't say much of anything. She was upset, confused, and they've got her on so much…you know, sedatives, she was really just trying to find out how…how Agent Vaughn was, and all," Marshal blundered nervously, relieved when Jack nodded shortly and walked away.

* * *

Poor Marshal. He gets into so much trouble…but I just love him. So…tune in next week to see if Weiss and Marshal tell Sydney what she said before she contracted her baffling case of amnesia, and if they can solve their case before it's…Hey, did I just sound like a soap opera and an old detective show all wrapped up in one? Um…let's just...review, please? 


	5. Nothing Left To Clean

**Defying the Shadows** _APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn't remember…_

Chapter 5: Nothing Left To Clean

Disclaimer: I don't, nor did or will I ever, own any aspect of Alias. All recognizable characters and plot strands belong to JJ Abrams, not to me. But this plot in this particular fic is mine. And I have no characters to claim all for my own like in some of my other fics. Like Jeffrey…I love Jeffrey!

A/N: intriKate, "semblance of a plot in mind while writing"? Um, I'll take that as a compliment. I was surprised too that there aren't more finale fics this year. There's usually dozens. May be that's why I'm getting so many reviews?

A/N: Darrel Doomvomit, I take it "superfly" is also a compliment. Thanks. I think. Lol.

A/N: Mich, your reviews are flatteringly brief. At least there's nothing to flame, I guess…

* * *

The damn paper work Sloane had left him early that morning was finally done, although a lot of the research stuff had taken a lot less time than it could have thanks to an assist from Marshal with pulling the right files. Weiss wasn't positive, but he thought there was a pretty good chance Sloane hated him. 

"Hey, Dixon," he said, catching the agent up the hall from Sloane's empty office. "Have you seen Sloane?" He waved the sheath of papers he held. "He said he wanted these when I was done."

Dixon frowned.

"He left hours ago," Dixon said. "He said something about being at the hospital for Nadia." He shrugged pointedly. "It sounded important," he added for emphasis.

As the words sank in, Weiss' generally easy going features twisted into those of a rage that concerned Dixon for the immediate health of their superior.

"Surely the bastard wouldn't intentionally _not_ tell me they were operating on my girlfriend's _head_?" he growled.

Eric Weiss being pissed off enough to growl was a frightening prospect. Dixon studied the man beside him for only a moment before deciding to attempt to diffuse the quickly ticking time bomb.

"Man, you know Sloane. May be he just didn't want you worrying about Nadia down there for hours," he suggested.

"I doubt it," Weiss snapped, already walking away. "That ass hole doesn't even like me."

* * *

Sydney smiled disbelievingly. 

"No, I don't need the wheelchair."

"It's a rule, Ms. Bristow," the young blonde girl said. Probably an intern, poor kid. "All outgoing patients are taken to the front in a wheelchair.

"Really. I don't need the wheelchair. I can walk."

"Ms. Bristow, I can't let you do that. _All outgoing patients get a chair._ It's practically a condition of your release."

Sydney could see the girl's temper beginning to flare, but she was getting bored with the exchange as well.

"I am perfectly capable of walking," Sydney said, swinging her jean-clad legs over the side of the bed and standing to prove her point. She took two lazy steps toward the girl as she said, "I don't think you should waste your time forcing a wheelchair on a patient whose only remaining obstacle is getting out that door."

Jack apparently was becoming annoyed by the young blonde's stubbornness as well.

"Is there a form we can sign declining the use of a wheelchair?" he asked stoically, commanding girl's attention.

"Well," she said nervously. "We don't keep any forms for a patient to relinquish the right to a…"

"Then we're done here," he interrupted, starting toward the door and looking ready to walk over the wheelchair parked in front of the doorway if the blonde didn't move it. Sydney followed closely; she'd never admit it, but lying motionless in a hospital bed for as long as she did had wrought its effects on her limbs. If Jack wanted to plow a path, she was more than willing, just for today, to follow that path.

"But…but…" the blonde was still sputtering when Sydney and Jack turned the corner.

"Thanks," Sydney muttered, quickening her pace to fall in step with her father. Jack only nodded.

Sydney thought vaguely as she sat in the passenger seat of Jack's black sedan that she was so rarely in her father's car. What was the make of it, anyway? Hell, it could have been a late model Camero for all she knew.

As they drew closer to her neighborhood, the idea of going home to an empty apartment became less and less appealing. No Nadia puttering around her room at all hours. No Weiss in her kitchen at six am, helping himself to coffee she'd just made. No Vaughn to snuggle up to when she woke in the night.

Her father must have read her mind.

"You could stay with me," he said, as if the invitation were one he gave everyday. "At least until you've had a few days to get back up to speed."

"I've lived alone for years," Sydney said simply. "Weiss is only two apartments over if I need him."

They rode in silence for several long minutes. As they pulled into her driveway, Jack turned to look at her and asked if Vaughn had enemies.

"Why?" Sydney snapped more than she meant to.

"Ithought it should be investigated that perhaps your and Vaughn's accident wasn't such an accident."

Sydney gave him a distrustful glance, knowing full well he wasn't telling her something. But all she said as she got out of the car was, "I'll see you at work."

Then she slammed the car door, bound and determined to find out what her father was hiding _now.

* * *

_

Weiss slipped into the intensive care ward of the hospital, knowing it was late, but also secure in the knowledge that Sloane had left. He'd cased the hospital himself, waiting for the traitorous ass to leave.

"Excuse me," he said, approaching the lone nurse on duty at the desk. "Can you tell me how Nadia Santos is doing?"

"Let me see," the woman said sleepily, pecking at the keyboard. "Yes, Ms. Santos is in the ICU, but stable. She'd fully expected to pull through."

Weiss decided to take a chance.

"The procedure today…I'm not sure I really understand what was done. I was unable to be here to talk to her doctor…"

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not a doctor. I can'ttell you much about the procedure."

"Gee, uh, I don't guess her doctor is still here? I kinda hoped to find out how he thought the operation went…"

"Sr. Simons has asked not to be disturbed."

"So he is here," Weiss said, not having to feign the eagerness in his voice.

The nurse belatedly realized her mistake.

"Dr. Simons is very busy…"

"I just want to see him for a minute," Weiss argued. All he could hope for, after all, was to know how she was doing, because if he claimed relation, or worse, to be her fiancé, he had no doubt at all that Sloane would promptly have his head on a platter with an apple in his mouth.

The nurse looked for a split second like she was going to argue, but with a sigh she leaned over the PA system.

"Dr. Simons, you're needed at the main nurse's station, Dr. Simons."

Then she leaned back in her chair, bored with Weiss and having no intentions of sparing him another glance.

Simons stepped around the corner a few moments later, took one look at Weiss, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Nadia Santos' friends and family were turning into more trouble than they could possibly be worth.

"Mr. Weiss, was it?" Simons said calmly. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I wanted to ask you about the procedure Nadia underwent today. And I was hoping you could explain it a little better," he said, implying he knew basics but was simply an idiot.

Simons sighed, but he didn't walk away, so Weiss took that as a good sign.

"The procedure went well. Ms. Santos is stable," he announced calmly. Seeing his audience expected more, he unwillingly continued. "We discovered that it was necessary to remove a larger portion of the area in question than we anticipated."

"How does that change the risk?" Weiss asked quickly.

"It will increase the odds of temporary paralysis, but, in theory, that could be fully overcome with the proper physical therapy. In theory, of course. Nothing is a certainty at this point," Simons added carefully.

Weiss nodded wearily.

"Is she awake?"

"She's under sedation. Her contact list is on file. We'll call the person or persons on that list when she wakes up."

* * *

Sydney was just beginning to convince herself that she was losing her ever-loving mind having to stay home, alone, with nothing left to clean, when her doorbell rang. 

Jumping to answer it and desperate for company, Sydney only hoped her father hadn't returned to renew his crusade to get her to stay with him for a few days.

She smiled broadly when she found Marshal on her front step, clutching a thin file.

"Hey," she said, stepping back to let him in.

"Hey, Syd!" Marshal said enthusiastically. "Look, Weiss told me you don't remember anything you said at the hospital or the wreck or anything, but I started looking around, and, well…I think you should know about it. Weiss was worried about filling you in so soon, but if you can help, or it helps you remember…" Marshal trailed off and shrugged.

"So what's in the file?" Sydney asked, shrugging.

For the next hour, Marshal showed her everything in the file.

"Are you sure it's the same kid?" Sydney finally broke in. "And what about Mosley's wife? Do you have her name or her son's? Why would they have been extracted? Or were they kidnapped?"

"That's _definitely_ the same kid. At first, I thought may be they _were_ kidnapped," Marshal narrated. "But when I couldn't get into any of Mosley's case files to see what he might have been working on when he died, I came across a file on Mosley himself. All it said was that his wife and son were removed from the area as a precaution after Mosley's funeral. No names, no pictures, no references to other files, just that they were removed."

Marshal shook his head and looked up to catch a tear in Sydney's eye before she moved to wipe at her eye with the back of her hand.

"Syd, are you okay?" Marshal asked, tossing the file he'd held in his lap onto the coffee table.

"Vaughn and I were engaged," she said softly, both amazement and self-disgust in her voice. "And I don't even remember."

Marshal surprised her by leaning over to give her a quick hug.

"He'll wake up, Syd. The doctors all say it looks good," Marshal encouraged. "Hey, may be Vaughn won't remember either, huh?"

After a moment, Sydney burst out laughing.

"I wonder about you, Marshal," she said, grinning and shaking her head.

* * *

I had to do it. I had to put some goofy, only-Marshal-would-say-it moments in there. Enjoyed, I hope? Review, please! 


	6. Nothing To Do

**Defying the Shadows** _APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn't remember…_

Chapter 6: Nothing To Do

Disclaimer: I don't, nor did or will I ever, own any aspect of Alias. All recognizable characters and plot strands belong to JJ Abrams, not to me. But this plot in this particular fic is mine. And I have no characters to claim all for my own like in some of my other fics. Like Jeffrey…I love Jeffrey!

A/N: intriKate: I just won't show you some of my plots that crashed and burned because I hate prewriting. I have given in to the inevitable necessity of some sort of structure to my fics, as well as my original fiction…

* * *

Saturday proved to be just another day at the hospital. Sydney had agreed to go with Weiss to see Nadia. She understood they were only letting family see Nadia, and Weiss seemed to need reassurance that Sloane hadn't taken flight with her to his secret lair. 

"We're here to see Nadia Santos," Sydney told the nurse at the desk.

"Family only, miss," she said briskly.

"I'm her sister," Sydney assured. With a glance at Weiss' dejected expression she added, "And this is our cousin."

Weiss' jaw dropped, but the nurse smiled.

"Room 328," she said, gesturing to the hall at her left with a knowing wink.

"Thank you," Sydney said, grinning back at Weiss as he trailed hesitantly behind her.

"Syd, what are you doing?" he asked as soon as they rounded the corner. "Sloane will have my head!"

"Eric," Sydney said, crossing her arms. "So you want to see Nadia or not?"

"Of course I do, but…"

"Then shut up and come on."

Weiss was immediately glad upon walking into the room that he'd come. Seeing for himself that Nadia's color was much better than it had been a few days ago made him feel light years more at ease. She seemed to be so much more comfortable, even though the fingers of her left hand tapped restlessly against the starched hospital sheets.

Sydney smiled as she moved around the bed to hold her sister's hand.

"Nadia, you gotta fight, okay? Get better. I didn't sneak your lover in here for you to sleep."

Weiss laughed and stepped up to the side of the bed to smooth Nadia's restless left hand between his.

"She's right, babe. I want you to wake up and talk to me," Weiss said, trying to muster up a pout. "It's lonely without you, Nadia."

Sydney watched Weiss watch Nadia for a few minutes before making a move toward the door.

"You're a goner," she said, leaning against the door frame for a moment.

Weiss looked back at her.

"What are you talking about?"

Sydney grinned.

"You're head over heals over her. You're a goner."

Weiss grinned and shrugged.

"You going somewhere?" he changed the subject.

"I want to go see Vaughn," she said softly, forcing a smile. "I…I haven't been to see him yet," she admitted.

"So you break me in, then I'm on my own?" Weiss joked.

"Something like that. You can come get me when you're ready to leave, or I'll come back here."

With that she was gone.

Walking slowly toward Vaughn's room, Sydney began to wonder if her lack of memory was why she hadn't done any more than ask after him. She loved him; there's no doubt in her mind as to that fact. But not remembering their engagement scared her. Almost as much as the possibility that Michael Vaughn was not Michael Vaughn.

Could he really be Jacob Mosley's son? Sydney wondered.

She stood at the foot of Vaughn's bed for a long time just looking at him. His bottom lip was split, but after a week it was merely a dark slash across his lip. His left cheek had a yellow tint from the antiseptic the doctors had put on the lass cuts that still looked painful. An ugly bruise spread across his right temple, purple around the edges and where it had settled under his eye. His left forearm was wrapped in white gauze to protect what Sydney knew to be an angry red gash.

"Oh, Vaughn," she murmured, finally moving to hold his right hand. "I know there's something big here. Why can't I remember? Even Eric and Marshal remember more than I do." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Someone would kill to keep something you know a secret." Her voice began to break, and she felt tears fill her eyes. "I love you so much, Vaughn, but I can't even remember you proposing. I don't remember saying yes. I don't care who you are. Come back to me, whoever you are. You have to tell me who you are, Vaughn. Please don't leave me."

The tears began to fall, some dripping from the tip of her nose to land on his hand where she held it. She put her head to her hands where they were intertwined with his, a helpless gesture of a part of her still can't believe she's willing to make in front of this one man.

"I love you…" she sobbed quietly.

* * *

"Are you kidding?" Marshal hissed, grabbing onto her arm and pulling her into his office inside APO headquarters. "Sydney, you know I could hack…" 

"Marshal, we know Jacob Mosley was based in West Virginia when he died. I need to know the name of his son. I'm going to West Virginia."

"Syd, there are easier ways. If there's someone after Vaughn, you poking into his past life is going to plaster a big red target on your back," Marshal argued.

"But you hacking into most of the files that would have the kind of information I'm looking for would only result in the source agency finding out who _you_ are. I can take care of myself, Marshal, and I have to do this for Vaughn," Sydney said, almost pleading for Marshal to understand.

Marshal stared at her for a moment, then held up two fingers.

"I need you to do two things for me," he said.

"Anything," Sydney responded, happy to have his support.

"One, tell Weiss what you're doing. If anything happens to you, I'm not taking the heat alone," he said with a quick grin. "Two, promise you'll keep me posted, and call if you need anything."

Sydney smiled, then leaned forward and gave him a quick hug.

"I promise. I just feel like there's nothing to do for Vaughn here. I have to find out who he was, what he tried to tell me."

"But what if someone _is_ trying to kill him for his secret?"

A determined look claimed Sydney's countenance.

"Then I need to know why."

* * *

Now we get some action. Did I mention that I'm enjoying this fic? 


	7. Pure Misfortune

**Defying the Shadows** _APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn't remember…_

Chapter 7: Pure Misfortune

Disclaimer: I don't, nor did or will I ever, own any aspect of Alias. All recognizable characters and plot strands belong to JJ Abrams, not to me. But this plot in this particular fic is mine. And I have no characters to claim all for my own like in some of my other fics. Like Jeffrey…I love Jeffrey!

* * *

Sydney's cell phone vibrated in her hand, and she quickly punched a button and held it to her ear. 

"Bristow."

She couldn't believe she was driving down what amounted to a main road in the small West Virginia town, and hers was the only car on the road.

"Syd, hey, it's me, Marshal. I know you wanted to keep me out of this, but I found an unencrypted audio file, and I think I have the kid's name," Marshal said excitedly.

"What is it?" Sydney asked, swerving at the last second to miss a pothole on the right side, but hitting it anyway and muttering a soft curse under her breath.

"Rick. Well, at least, it could be the kid. And the audio wasn't very clear, so it could have been Ricky of Ritchie. May be even Richard. But it really sounded like Rick," he hastened to add.

"Great," Sydney said, swerving her SUV around another large pothole. "I have an address from the obituary I found in an old newspaper. I'm going now to talk to neighbors, and hope I find someone who knew the Mosley's. May be it I have a name, I can trigger some of the right memories."

"Syd…" Marshal hesitated.

"What?"

"I just thought you might wanna…you know, keep it in mind that this was around thirty years ago. I mean, you don't want to get your hopes up and find that none of the people in that nationhood lived there back then."

Sydney smiled. After a depressing search of hundreds of obituaries in an astounding eight local papers that morning, she was glad to have a reason to laugh and shake off the cloud of doom and gloom hanging over her head.

"Thanks, Marshal. I know the odds, but it's my only lead at the moment. I'll follow it until it runs out, which may be sooner rather than later," she finished dryly.

* * *

After an encore of doors closing in her face with the standard, "We've only lived here a few years," or even the more creative, "Never heard of any Mosleys on this street," Sydney was quickly approaching her wits end as well as the end of her lead. Oak doors, one bright red door, a beautifully intricate carved pine door. All lovely doors. But having them closed in one's face wasn't exactly conductive to noting their positive attributes. 

Taking a deep breath, Sydney raised her hand and rapped on the last door on the street. A Mrs. Branson, according to a girl of possibly six or seven who'd popped around the corner of her house when she'd heard Sydney talking to her father about a Mosley family that lived there thirty years ago.

"Mrs. Branson is real old," the little girl had helpfully informed her before her mother had called from the backyard. "Sometimes she doesn't really know who I am, but she's always lived here and she likes to talk about it," she'd added over her shoulder as she took off toward her mother's voice.

An old woman that struck Sydney as being at least eighty years old opened the door and peered hard at her through squinted eyes. The woman was tall and stood straight and proud, with a generous head of fluffy gray hair.

"Um…Mrs. Branson?" Sydney asked as the woman leaned closer to get a look at her face.

"That's me," the old lady crowed. "Who are you?" She leaned over closer. "Why, you're Helen Ratzinger's daughter! I never! You always were a cheeky little thing, Susie, climbin' my fence to get that boy's baseball that time."

Sydney frowned, hoping that this was one of those bad days the child had alluded to and the poor woman wasn't expecting this Susie person. The lady had a vibrancy about her that drew Sydney to her instantly.

"Come in, come in," Mrs. Branson rushed on, limping slowly back toward a good-sized kitchen. "I baked some cookies this mornin' thinking' that little girl up the street might come by to see me. Can't think of her name just now."

"Actually, Mrs. Branson, I…"

"Lemonade's in the fridge where it always was. Not too many kinds in the neighborhood these days, not like the old days when you young rascals had street games of baseball goin' every dadgummed day durin' the summer."

"I wanted to ask you about a kid that used to live here," Sydney said quickly when the lady paused to lower herself into a kitchen chair. "He lived here about thirty years ago…"

"You talk too much girl. You used to sit quiet for hours. Don't just stand there, child. Get those cookies off the counter there and get yourself a glass of lemonade. You'll insult me if you don't."

Sydney moved obediently around the kitchen, hoping the old woman didn't notice her open all of four cabinet doors before finding one holding glasses. She waited until she set the tray of cookies on the table and sat down herself with her glass of tangy sweet lemonade to speak.

"Now, what were you blabbin' about child?" Mrs. Branson interrupted again.

"A boy. I think he lived here about thirty years ago, and I was hoping you might remember him. Jacob Mosley's son?" Sydney asked carefully.

"Mosley…hmph," she said after a moment. "An odd lot, they were. But their boy, he was a handful," she said, grinning fondly in remembrance. "That boy…Richard, that was his name. Rick as his father called him. Boy adored that man, but he worked a lot." She paused. "Seems to me there was some sort of scandal hit them Mosleys. Hmmph. Was all that Jacob, you ask me. Poor little Richard. He confided in me hat he thought his daddy's death was all his fault because he'd bragged on him. Never did get that. Boy was so proud of his lump of a father."

"Why would bragging about his father have gotten him killed?" Sydney asked, leaning forward eagerly. This dear old gossip was a treasure trove of information.

"Well, Susie! Have you been gone so long? "Jacob Mosley's death was a legend among you kids!" the old woman burst out, surprising Sydney into sitting back again. "Do have another cookie, dear," she added. "Don't you remember? They said he was a secret agent for the FBI! Undercover, right in our own neighborhood! Well, when little Rickard found out somehow that he was an agent, well, every little boy's hero is Super Man. He was ecstatic to find his daddy was a real live secret agent!"

"What was Mr. Mosley doing? Busting a crime ring?" Sydney asked, intentionally injecting a certain amount of simple ignorance into the question.

Mrs. Branson got all hushed and leaned in to say dramatically, "The government covered it all up, Susie. Denied it all." She sat back with a sniff. "Of course, I was a sharp young woman then. _I_ knew it was true."

* * *

Weiss skidded into the hospital barely ahead of Sloane. As they'd exited APO, Sloane had worn a look of utter hate, surely wondering how Weiss had garnered himself a similar call to the one he'd received himself. 

By pure misfortune, Dr. Simons was standing by the nurse's desk dictating orders when Weiss hurried through the door, Sloane only steps behind him.

"Gentlemen," Dr. Simons said, a distinct displeasure in his voice.

"Nadia," Weiss said. "Can I see her?"

"I'm her father," Sloane added, coming up behind him. "This buffoon is nothing to Nadia. I don't want him near her. I'll see her alone."

"That will not be possible at the moment, Mr. Sloane," Simons said, using the same tone Sloane had used. "Nadia asked that we allow no visitors."

"Why?" Sloane and Weiss demanded as one, then threw angry glances at each other.

"Ms. Santos has discovered that she has little control of her left arm and leg. I understand her line of work had a strong physical aspect to it. I believe she needs a certain amount of time to come to terms with her loss of muscle coordination, and to come to understand her therapy options before she is up to dealing with the obvious controversy the two of you represent."

The insult left in place, Simons turned on his heel and left the unfortunate nurse to deal with the two shocked men he left behind.

* * *

I have a habit of making my hospital staff either amusingly dense, or hilariously sharp. I think I've made Simons the latter, don't you? 


	8. So Intense It Hurts

**Defying the Shadows** _APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn't remember…_

Chapter 8: So Intense It Hurts

Disclaimer: I don't, nor did or will I ever, own any aspect of Alias. All recognizable characters and plot strands belong to JJ Abrams, not to me. But this plot in this particular fic is mine. And I have no characters to claim all for my own like in some of my other fics. Like Jeffrey…I love Jeffrey!

* * *

"Marshal, it's me. I need a favor." 

"Syd, hi. How are you? I mean, did you find out about…well, did you find anything?" Marshal asked.

"This line is secure," Sydney assured. "I know for sure that Jacob Mosley's son's name is Rickard, he called him Rick. Mosley was working undercover on something, and his son didn't know he was an agent. His cover was blown somehow, a neighbor told me his son believed his father's subsequent death was his fault because he'd found out and bragged. I need to find out what he was working on when he died. I can't go any further out here; it was too long ago. But if you can find out where hard copy files are stored, I can infiltrate the facility and find real, hard facts to direct me to whoever's after Vaughn now."

"Really? Wow. Um…I think I can…Give me an hour," Marshal said quickly.

"Call my cell when you find it and I'll get to a secure line."

"Sure. That…it must have been awful for Vaughn to think…I mean for Rick to think he was responsible. And, hey, somebody may not like you asking questions about Mosley. Are you sure you want to do this alone, Syd?"

"Someone tried to kill us, Marshal. Someone found out who Vaughn is, and I intend to find out who before they try to kill us again."

* * *

The doctors had finally left her alone. From the moment she'd opened her eyes almost three hours ago, doctors and nurses had been in and out incessantly. "Move your toes, please." "Does this hurt?" "Lift your arm." "Do you have any pain here?" 

She'd just wanted them all to go away from the moment she'd realized she couldn't move her left arm. She tried now to just flex her hand, over and over, but her fingers merely twitched in their permanently half-curled position.

It scared her, knowing she couldn't run away or fight, knowing her left arm was useless. More than anything had ever scared her before in her life. As a child, she'd been tough; strong enough to beat up the boys and cocky enough to prove is. Then she'd become a naïve teen, on her own. Her only chance had been to fight on more than one occasion. She'd always had her physical strength and prowess.

"Hmph," she muttered to herself. "Now I probably can't even walk."

Nadia knew she's have to retract her refusal to have any visitors; she had no idea how long Dr. Simons would hold them off anyway. She just couldn't bear to have Weiss see her like this. So scared and small and helpless.

Her next troublesome visitor was sure to be her father. Thinking about him only served to add to her fear. She had clear remaining memories of the things she'd done, of everything that had happened. Seeing her own father point a gun at her and fire it had somehow driven home the point that Sydney had tried several times to make her see. That Arvin Sloane was a dangerous man. To so distantly feel the awful, burning pain in her chest and know that her father was the man who'd inflicted it…whatever his reason, she wasn't sure how she felt about him after something like that.

Then there was, of course, the fact that the ability to fully comprehend what the doctors had done to her continued to elude her. At her continued confusion, they'd explained it several times, but the fact remained. How could they be sure they'd really fixed what was wrong with her? Could that horrible thing that had possessed her come back?

She knew Simons had told her that he thought she could probably walk, but what did he know? She couldn't even feel her foot, much less stand on it.

"Two gentlemen were here to see you," Dr. Simons announced, walking in with his customary clipboard. "They were very disappointed when I told them you weren't having visitors." He watched her glance away guiltily. After a beat he added, "They don't like each other very much, do they?"

He was rewarded with a wan stretch of her lips.

"No," she said, some form of amusement almost showing through.

Simons nodded, glad to see that Nadia still maintained some sense of humor. He knew from experience those were the patients that could recover the fastest.

"Ms. Santos, I know you're not feeling up to beginning a physical therapy regimen right now, but I think you should be made aware of your options so that you can begin to think about what you'd like to do," he began, flipping through some pages. "Of course, you're going to have to cooperate with a full evaluation soon so that we can see how much work has to be done, but I think it looks good for you, Santos." Simons leaned in. "With a little work, your left side could be up to full strength. There's no nerve damage, the muscle memory's just gone," he assured.

* * *

"Syd, Jacob Mosley was working from the West Virginia field office of the FBI." 

"That's great, Marshal! Thanks!"

"I did you one better," Marshal said excitedly. "I found a trap door with no bells on it. Well, not literally, it was really more like a crack in the fence, and the dog on the other side was asleep in the…"

"Marshal," Sydney warned gently.

"Right. Um, well, Jacob Mosley was assigned to infiltrate a Rambaldi fanatic group known only as ESI. Officially, ESI was the front company, dealing in computers. But get this. It may not be significant, and it may be sending you down a blind alley, but…" Marshal lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. "There was that time that Sloane never accounted for, and Mosley began his infiltration attempts the same year that _Sloane_ left the CIA."

For several moments, Sydney sat in stunned silence. Of all people…she never doubted the bastard had an agenda, but a move so blatant was utterly unlike…

"Syd? You still there?"

"Uh, yeah, Marshal, I'm here. So what I need is a list of names. People Mosley identified, descriptions, may be even photographs and surveillance, and see if Sloane is among them," she brainstormed.

* * *

Weiss knew Sydney had found something on Vaughn, but he'd simply been too worried about Nadia to catch much of what Marshal had said. 

He continued to pace the waiting room Simons had, in no uncertain terms, relegated him to when he'd refused to leave the hospital until Nadia would see him. He held out the hope that Simons would complain to Nadia about his behavior, hence showing her that he cared enough to wait for her and wanted to be there when he needed him.

Because however strong a woman she was, Weiss wanted her to need him. At that point in the game, he wanted to see that Nadia felt he was as much a part of her life as he felt she was of his. In the weeks during which he hadn't known from day to day whether she would even survive, he hadn't gone a single hour without thinking of her, of some cute thing she'd once said, of how full of love her eyes were if he could get past the habitual wariness her expression always carried, of her admiration for her sister that he'd only dreamed of as an only child.

He knew every detail of this woman that had slipped past his guards and been the first woman to ever be amused by his magic tricks.

But now he didn't even have a damn clue as to the extent of her limited mobility or whether she was getting or had even agreed to go to any sort of physical therapy.

* * *

The back door had really been disturbingly easy to get into. 

Even with the handful of agents still in the building at this late hour, she didn't worry. The file room was away from the main offices, presumably a deterrent from browsing classified material during the last twenty minutes of your lunch break.

Not really sure what she was looking for, Sydney quickly searched out the file labeled 'Mosley.' Flipping open the file, she scanned the report on Mosley. Under the 'DETAILS' heading, she saw a listing for 'Simpson, Emma and Richard,' and a case number. Tucking the file under her arm, she scanned the little plastic signs labeling the various shelves and filing cabinets until she found the one containing the file.

Where did 'Simpson' come from? Sydney wondered as she automatically thumbed through the files.

Sydney yanked the file from its drawer and flipped it open to a picture of a little boy she'd seen twice before and one of a pretty blonde woman in her late twenties.

Swinging a black bag from her shoulder, Sydney jammed the files inside and, after checking to see that the two guards she'd decked coming in were still securely unconscious in the small conference room off of the file room, racing back up the hall and out of a door that wasn't even supposed to lead to the FBI building.

The door opened on an alley that led to a shopping center parking lot. She'd left her car parked near the entrance to a beauty shop that clearly did enough business that nobody would be sure when she left whether hers was a strange car, or whether it belonged to that woman that came in for a weekly cut and curl.

* * *

Nadia shifted restlessly in her bed with a heavy sigh. This was absolutely ridiculous. Being strong and independent was all she'd ever known, and she'd told that damn doctor as much. How could he expect her to spend _weeks_ totally dependent on someone else to help her stand on her own damn feet? 

Yeah, he'd had those nurses drag her out of bed. Yeah, she'd been upright. But her good arm had been wrapped around a set of shoulders, her right leg had borne all of her weight, and the nurse on her left had had a surprisingly tight grip on her waist to hold her up. He'd told her to try to walk, and she'd argued that she couldn't even tell if her foot was touching the floor of if her knee bent in half.

So now she sat up in bed, her left arm turned palm up so that the endless twitching didn't look so much like irritated tapping. She'd just decided that the silence was unbearable when the door, closed at her request, opened and a form slipped through before pushing it silently closed.

Nadia opened her mouth to argue that she would not be poked and prodded any more, but the words caught in her throat and she unconsciously threw the sheet that covered her legs over her left arm.

"Eric!" she cried, surprised at the alarm in her own voice.

"Nadia," Eric said, worry pulling at his features as he tried to soothe her. "I just had to…"

"I asked them to keep people out." This time she manages to make her voice cold. "I'm calling the nurse," she added, shaking her head as she tried to roll over far enough to reach the red call button behind her bed.

Weiss moved up to wrap his fingers firmly around her wrist, but his grip was light.

"Please, Nadia," he said, holding her gaze. "You scared the hell out of me, babe. Then you won't even see me? I need to know you're okay. Will you give me that?"

Slowly, Nadia relaxed to fall stiffly back into her pillows, pulling her wrist free to rest her hand in her lap. She was silent for a long moment, looking anywhere but at Weiss.

"I didn't want you to see me like this," she admitted in a small voice, gesturing at her limp left arm where it had been revealed during their struggle.

A look of relief so intense it hurt washed over Weiss' face, and he gently too her left hand to smooth between his.

"Nadia…I don't care if you can never walk again, babe. I…I love you."

He waited anxiously after the words flew unbidden from his mouth as Nadia's expression went from shock, to confusion, to disbelief.

And then a wide smile spread slowly across her face.

* * *

Aw, how sweet! I like Weiss finally finding a girl. I should have given him a girlfriend in a fic a long time ago… 


	9. Another Man's Life

**Defying the Shadows **_APO is hit hard when three of their best agents wind up in the hospital, but the intrigue and deception is deepened when it is discovered one of them has dark secrets, and the only one that can discover the truth doesn't remember…_

Chapter 9: Another Man's Life

Disclaimer: I don't, nor did or will I ever, own any aspect of Alias. All recognizable characters and plot strands belong to JJ Abrams, not to me. But this plot in this particular fic is mine. And I have no characters to claim all for my own like in some of my other fics. Like Jeffrey…I love Jeffrey!

* * *

The lights in the seedy motel room were dim, perhaps even more so since she'd arrived, but Sydney didn't even notice any more. The stolen files lay scattered across the bed and her lap. The material hardly seemed to make sense. 

Michael Vaughn's name was once Richard Simpson. His mother's name was not Marie, but Emma. They were not French, but Emma. They were not French, but Emma Simpson had sported a fascination for languages and had taught her son French as a small child.

Jacob Mosley had needed a wife and child to complete his family man cover to infiltrate ESI. Emma Simpson had been a single mother struggling and failing to take care of a three-month-old baby who was the product of a one-night stand. Emma Simpson had maintained no contact with the man and had no idea where he was, nor had she wanted him to stake a claim to her son.

Jacob Mosley had offered to provide Richard a good, stable home and a father figure, and Emma had believed Jacob Mosley's involvement would be low-key and not place her and her son in any real danger.

Jacob Mosley's assignment had lasted seven years, during which Richard Simpson believed Mosley was his father, as Emma had agreed and the FBI had insisted, saying the boy would be a security risk if he did not believe so.

A notation in Mosley's file stated that it was believed but never confirmed that Emma Simpson and Jacob Mosley became intimate during their feigned marriage.

An interview revealed that Emma had discovered how deeply Jacob Mosley was involved with ESI and that they had argued vehemently about it one night. It was assumed that the fight was overheard by Richard Simpson.

The boy had proceeded to boast to his friend, and one of ESI's bugs had picked up the confession that Jacob Mosley was FBI.

Richard had been riding home with Jacob Mosley one night following this, and he witnessed from the backseat as Jacob Mosley, the man he believed to be his father, was pulled from the car, beaten on the roadside, and shot in the head. Psychological workups showed that he'd clearly heard the person who'd beaten Mosley before handing the gun to the one who pulled the trigger say, "Your _son _was kind enough to tell his little friend of your affiliation when we could hear him."

A tear escaped Sydney's eye and trickled down her cheek as her gaze caught on those words. If all of this was correct, if everything she'd found and guessed was right, then Vaughn's father had not only been murdered, but he'd witnessed it and heard one of his father's killers blame it on him.

Shaking her head, Sydney laid aside the set of papers in her hand on the dark green spread, then shook her head again and closed the file labeled 'Simpson' and placed it on the night stand. Clues to Jacob Mosley's killer would not be there, nor would clues to the person or persons after Vaughn now.

But Mosley's file did. It took Sydney only minutes to find Mosley's notes on ESI's top operatives and partners, all of which were complete with a partial name, an alias, a picture, or at least a detailed description of any and all useful information pertaining to them.

Lawrence.

No.

Sydney scanned the debrief and Mosley's hand scrawled notes.

Samuel Porter.

Nicholson.

J. Breen.

Charles Brock.

Parker.

A. Sloane.

The name jumped out at her, grabbed her, shook her to her core.

A. Sloane. Arvin Sloane.

She almost couldn't believe it. She thought she knew every despicable thing the man had ever done, but every time she thought that something new and that much worse crawled out of the woodwork to bite her in the ass.

Fighting the vehement urge to find Sloane that very minute and beat the bloody hell out of him until he begged for mercy, she continued to scan the list, resisting the tug of bile rising at the back of her throat.

Many of the names, as she moved further down the list, Sydney recognized as deceased, former KGB and K Directorate, or current leading black market arms dealers. None of them, however, struck her as being close enough to Vaughn to try to kill him.

I.D.

One of top three partners; STATUS: active; DETAILS: n/a; on assignment in Los Angeles area, under ALIAS: Laura.

Sydney gasped. With the minimal details Jacob Mosley had been able to offer up, there should have been at least some miniscule form of doubt in her mind. But all Sydney felt was a sudden conviction, as if it was the very reason for that exact point in time when Vaughn had abruptly ceased to be willing to discuss one Irina Derevko on anything not strictly a professional level.

He knew.

Irina Derevko truly had killed Vaughn's father, and at some point that fact had ceased to be a part for him to play to and become very, very personal.

* * *

Nadia smiled, looking across the room where Weiss waited for her, sitting on the end of a weight bench. She waved at him as the doctor at her side patted her arm encouragingly before leaving her to Weiss as he joined them. 

"They say you're doing great."

Weiss grinned broadly and slipped easily into place at Nadia's side to allow her to lean against him a little.

"It's been two days, Eric," Nadia argued sportingly, her smile still in her eyes.

"But, hey, look at you, standing up. You told me you couldn't stand, remember that?" he teased.

Nadia levered herself to hold her own weight and turned around, her left leg straight, to throw her right arm around his neck. Her left arm still hung nearly useless by her side, but she pulled him down to kiss his cheek.

"Ms. Santos," a smiling nurse said, appearing by her side. "Feel up to a bit of a walk?"

Weiss caught the quick flash of panic cross her face and put his arm around her waist.

"I've cleared it for you to walk back to your room if you feel up to it," the woman added.

"I, uh, I don't…" Nadia began softly.

"Come on, babe," Weiss stopped her, tightening his arm reassuringly. "I'll stay with you. What's the worst that could happen?"

Nadia opened her mouth to reply but Weiss' raised eyebrows reminded her that no possible mishap could be as bad as what had landed her there in the first place.

With a nervous laugh, she nodded and pushed away from Eric, determined to see if she could make it on her own.

She didn't look back, just kept walking. She stumbled stepping into the elevator at the end of the hall and was almost surprised to feel Eric's hands clamp onto her shoulders to steady her.

"I got you," he said at her startled glance back. She smiled gratefully.

By the time Nadia reached her room she could barely lift her feet off the floor, but when Weiss started to put his arm around her waist she batter at his hand impatiently, dragging her left leg just a little quicker.

Nadia collapsed onto her bed, unable to move another inch, but the intensely proud smile on her face was enough to make Weiss feel as giddy as if he'd just accomplished some amazing feat himself.

* * *

Vaughn's dreams were changing, going back in time. He no longer saw the crash, but other things, always further back than the last, as if his mind was reaching back for a reason to rejoin those he's separated himself from. 

He saw as if from a distance all the times recently when he'd completely blocked out every word Sloane was saying. He'd been filled with a sudden, inexplicable, all-consuming rage that confused him even as he tried to tamp it down, to hear what he was saying.

Every time he'd felt he almost had something, the scene would change again, tearing from his fingers the spidery thread he'd almost clutched.

Then he was standing in the hall facing the maximum-security holding cell of the JTF, Kendall, Sydney, and Jack all facing the same.

He stood stoically, a hateful glare fixed on the prisoner. He had to keep up yet another piece of this intricate ruse; it was who he was now.

"My offer expired the moment the detonations codes were acquired!"

It was the first time he'd ever heard this prisoner speak so outwardly harshly, or even to show a trace of emotion, and in that moment he knew this part he played, another man's life, wasn't really so different at all.

This fact, at least, was no lie. Irina Derevko had, in fact, played a part in his father's death.

With a start and a chorus of screeching alarms and monitors, the dream dissolved into stark white walls as Vaughn shot upright in a hospital bed, his hand automatically snatching away the oxygen tubing when he felt it pull at his face.

* * *

Yay! Vaughn's back! But how much does he really know about his "father's" death? Hehe… 


End file.
